Spread the Joy.

At Christmas, all sense of good taste is thrown under the bus. Homes are transformed into kitschy nightmares, and we’re forced to spend time with people we, at best, share a genetic pool with – and that’s about it. To cope, we numb ourselves with alcohol, sweets, and hopeless food. Then we give presents to children who lose interest in them the moment the wrapping paper is torn off. The TV volume is turned up as Donald Duck and his friends wish us a Merry Christmas – a rerun reminding us that the only sensible place in the world is the past.

It’s therefore refreshing that a large group of friends and I have, for years, booked a table at a restaurant in town. A tradition we’ve created ourselves, allowing us to socialise in a Christmas-free environment like proper adults. But in recent years, even this arrangement has become problematic for me.

-I know, let’s order lots of different dishes to share, one of my friends says, immediately receiving the group’s approval. I grit my teeth. This has been going on for years, and I’ve gone along with it to avoid ruining the good atmosphere. Breaking bread has been portrayed as something wonderful and communal since biblical times. So how do I tell them I hate it? That I want to make an active choice from the menu, pick something I actually fancy, and then eat it all without the risk of stray forks laying claim to my food? I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, but for the past twenty years, I’ve promised myself to stand up for myself more and stop being so agreeable. So I decide this is a good time to start.

-Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want your urine in my mouth.

Everyone laughs, but when they see the look on my face, they quickly fall silent.

-I’m not naming names, but I’ve seen how some of you are a bit lax with handwashing in the men’s toilet, I explain. The very thought of sharing dishes with those hands makes me feel sick.

The women around the table glance searchingly at their husbands, who shrug apologetically.

-What’s he on about?

-I understand this is a bit sensitive. But just as I wouldn’t take pick-and-mix sweets from a bowl in a dementia care home or shake hands with a leper, I won’t share faecal bacteria with my best friends.

-Faecal? I thought you said urine? one of the women blurts out.

-Poor hand hygiene is a slippery slope, don’t you think? I reply, a touch diplomatically.

-If you’re so bloody worried about our dirty hands, snaps the man who suggested sharing the food, why don’t you just order your own dish?

I nod gravely, masking the fact that he’s played straight into my hands.

-Yes, exactly! Isn’t it great that we’ve cleared this up? I wouldn’t want you lot sitting there worrying that I’m silently judging you throughout the entire evening – no one benefits from that.

I may have lost all my friends that night, but I gained self-respect and thoroughly enjoyed a delicious charred halibut.

Say my name.

My youngest daughter sends me a picture of a pregnancy test.

-Is that a rectal thermometer? I reply.

She doesn’t answer, so I call her immediately.

-Sorry, darling, that’s amazing news. How far along are you?

-Ten weeks, she says, sounding euphoric.

-Is this the family’s first boy then?

-Hmm, who knows, she says.

-Have you talked about names if it’s a boy?

-A little bit.

-Have you considered Anders?

She lets out a laugh.

-Not really.

-Why not? Maybe it’s not so much about the name itself, but the provenance?

-The what?

-The origin, the history behind the name, the reason it’s something magnificent, I explain humbly.

-Doesn’t it mean ’different’ in German?

-I’m thinking more about the fact that your own father is called that. It’s not uncommon to name your child after a beloved relative.

-Maybe, but it could be a girl too.

-Is your generation really that conservative? The child might not even identify as a girl, in which case Anders works perfectly regardless.

-We’re not going to give a daughter a boy’s name, not right off the bat, she replies curtly.

-Back in the day, it wasn’t unusual to name boys Åsa-Nisse, Maj-Björn, Janne-Lisa and…

-But no one does that today.

-No, today every kid has to be named Moonbeam, Tequila, Summer Rain or Delafina.

-Now you’re being ridiculous.

-After everything I’ve done for you, you’re not even willing to let my memory live on through your child?

-No.

-What do you mean, no? You could at least suggest my name as a middle name?

-We’re not having middle names.

-Perhaps the baby doesn’t need a grandfather either?

-Stop being so dramatic.

-I’m just suggesting a name, and you’re going completely on the defensive.

-For God’s sake, Dad, no sane person today names their child Anders, surely you realise that? It wasn’t even a good name in the ’60s when half the population was called that. Your parents must have been completely unimaginative to settle on Lena, Anders and Eva. Or maybe they just fell back on those because they couldn’t agree on decent names?

-I’d like to point out that it’s partly my genes you’re passing on, so I should have a say.

-Jesus Christ…

-Don’t tell me that’s your name suggestion??

Low-hanging fruit.

During the summer holiday in Italy, we rented an Airbnb owned by a Russian. Had I known that from the start, I wouldn’t have rented it—yes, that’s how principled I am. The lack of air conditioning was already stated in the listing, but that didn’t stop me from airing all my opinions about Russians. The windows were wide open, fitted with mosquito nets, while we lay wrapped up like mummies in our sweaty sheets. That’s when I heard the sound of footsteps outside.

-What was that? I asked, my eyes wide open. My wife looked back at me, puzzled.

-Is it the Russians? I whispered.

-Oh, stop being ridiculous.

-What? I’ve been badmouthing them for the past 20 minutes, I said, alarmed, as suddenly another pair of brisk footsteps echoed outside.

-Did you hear that? They’re barefoot! I hissed anxiously.

-What would they be doing out there?

-Well, not drinking vodka, that’s for sure, I replied, managing to untangle myself from the sheets.

I crept toward the kitchen area in the house’s single room. A bread knife might not be much of a weapon, but in my capable hands, I could surely saw off an arm or a thigh bone if necessary. I approached the terrace door and opened it slowly. Once again, I heard footsteps and instinctively raised the knife. My wife had sat up in bed, the moonlight illuminating her now terrified face.

-Maybe it’s an animal? Are there bears here? she asked, listening intently.

-I don’t think so.

-There are owls, apparently, she added hesitantly.

-Well, then it’s one hell of a massive owl with human feet, I hissed irritably and took a determined step out onto the moonlit terrace.

-Dedushkiny chasy! I shouted in my most authoritative voice. ”Grandfather’s clock” might not be the ideal phrase for the situation, but after a sinus infection at age 12 with Swedish public service TV as my sole companion, it’s the only Russian one I know.

Suddenly, I heard another heavy footstep right beside me. And that’s when I saw where the sounds were coming from. The ground was covered in ripe figs that had fallen to the ground. I gathered myself quickly and performed an audio-based pantomime of a violent fight. As a finishing touch, I smeared the blood-red remains of figs across the knife and my face before returning to my terrified wife with a heroic expression.

-It was the Russians; they won’t bother us anymore, I concluded.

Choking small talk.

It’s the first dinner at our friends’ place since they moved into their new flat. The obligatory house tour takes place and the twelve guests are herded around, hearing the story of how dreadful everything looked before the renovation and the accompanying conflicts with the builders. I’m feeling a bit low, as I always do this time of the year, but mostly because I can’t let go of an article that has deeply unsettled me.

-We love the kitchen now, says the hostess. Just being able to stand here and cook while staying connected with the guests at the dining table.

I drum impatiently on the marble worktop as one guest remarks that the kitchen is the most important part of the home, causing everyone to nod in agreement as if something profoundly wise has been said. We are led into the living room and the social spaces.

-The whole family loves hanging out here too, the host exclaims. I want to change the subject and don’t believe him for a second. It looks like an exhibition at a furniture fair, with white corduroy sofas, a glass table that could break a shin if you hit it hard enough, and a woven wool rug as uneven as a forest trail, ready to trip anyone after a few glasses of wine. Especially if they’ve had a run-in with the glass table beforehand.

When the hosts open the door to their bedroom, everyone politely peers in through the doorway and nods approvingly, as though it’s a sacred space no one dares enter. I step inside and linger for a while, which creates a certain nervousness. I rest my gaze on the arrangement of the cushions, run my hand over the perfection of the bedspread and nod in approval at what I see. This is exactly the transition I need.

-Did you read about how common erotic asphyxiation has become these days?

The hosts and guests look deeply uncomfortable.

-I believe the starter is being served, says the host, walking off towards the dining room.

-It’s unbelievable, I continue loudly, following the group. A guy was apparently convicted of causing grievous bodily harm when his girlfriend ended up with permanent brain damage.

-We’ve made place cards, the hostess interjects, touching her throat lightly.

I find my seat and stand beside my dinner companion. I pull out her chair while continuing my thoughts.

-But I never understood who was supposed to get the most out of this sex game. Was it her or was it him enjoying strangling his girlfriend

No one answers, which I take as either discomfort or that they think the answer to my question is obvious.

-Surely it shouldn’t be legal to experiment like that. Or would that be an infringement on people’s freedom? I mean, at best it was mutual. Like when a sadist and masochist meet. Though in this case, I imagine neither of them were satisfied with the outcome.

-A bit like having you as a guest, says the hostess, smiling icily at me.

-Yes, exactly, I reply, realising I might have talked a bit too much.

The starter is served. It’s a tuna carpaccio. Oxygen depletion in the oceans is also something that deeply concerns me, though bringing it up at dinner might be a bit of a downer.

The Orphans.

There are children whose parents don’t even exist. I can’t explain it any other way. All you hear about are youth homes, sentencing guidelines, social exclusion, society’s failures – but not a word about parenthood. Despite being under 18, they’re no longer even described as children, but as a societal problem expected to be locked away and dealt with by anyone other than the ones who brought them into the world.

I’m not trying to place blame on parents who’ve lost control of their children. It’s not their fault that their child has committed horrific crimes, but they are still parents. Surely, they should play the leading role when it comes to getting their child back on the right track?

The Flight of the Bumblebee.

Inspired by elected officials in other countries, I’ve started living life to the fullest. I say what I think and stand my ground, even when proven wrong. I look down on people worse off than me and cosy up to those I can gain something from. If anyone says I hold racist views, I reply that at my age, one is entitled to think and believe whatever one likes. If someone finds my view of humanity despicable, I say I’m exercising my freedom of speech. And if they have a problem with that—well, then they’re the ones who have an issue with democracy. I don’t pay taxes, I shoplift, skip out on restaurant bills, and drive too fast, running red lights whenever I feel like it.

-You only live once, as I explained to a police officer recently after I accidentally ran over a woman in a wheelchair.

-The old hag didn’t have a meaningful life anyway, I added matter-of-factly later in custody.

The punishment was six months in prison, but since I evaded the summons by disguising myself as a bumblebee for a year, the case was eventually dismissed and forgotten. What I perhaps hadn’t counted on was that the old hag’s children hadn’t forgotten—and decided to exact justice.

I woke up one night to find three figures in balaclavas and holding baseball bats standing around my bed.

-An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, I heard one of them hiss.

I wanted to inform them that bumblebees are incredibly important for biodiversity, but there wasn’t time.

-Bzzzz, I managed to get out before everything went black.

Zero sympathy.

I snap the book shut with a satisfying thud. (In reality, I’m turning off my Kindle, and it’s completely silent.)

-Damn, one should do as Hemingway did. Shoot oneself when the time is right.

-Now? my wife wonders, sipping her Aperol Spritz.

It’s an irritating counter-question, as it’s all about my boundless fishing for validation and affection. But my pride forbids me from showing it, while my consciousness lacks the sense to shut up.

-No, when the moment arrives, I reply with a perfect note that is both melodramatic and nonchalant at the same time. I feel like I’m handling this skillfully.

-Where then? my wife asks.

Here I become a little irritated, I must admit. The whole idea is that she should be appalled that I’m even talking about this, not asking practical questions as if it were about returning a rental car.

-Well, where do you think? The head or the heart seems appropriate?

-I was thinking more about the location. It’s bound to get rather messy.

Good God, is that all she thinks about? Not a word about how she couldn’t live without me, how the loss would consume her, or how she would visit my gravestone every day for the rest of her meaningless life. No, she’s worried about the decor and the cleaning.

-I don’t know, I suppose I’ll have to head out into the woods, I reply a bit coldly.

-So a nursery class can find what’s left of you? my wife wonders, twirling the straw in her red drink.

-Maybe I could crawl into a rubbish bag first? I say constructively. I can certainly play this game too.

-With a loaded shotgun? You’ll accidentally blow off half your face or your entire lower half, and I’m not going to be your carer if that’s what you think.

-Good God, am I going to have to think everything through myself? I say angrily. What would you do then, since you seem to have an answer for everything?

-Well, it’s probably better if I do it when you start getting annoyingly self-pitying.

I pick up “The Old Man and the Sea” again and snort at her. She’s never even held a weapon, has she? At the same time, I sense she’s studying me in a way I don’t recognise. As if I were prey?